


breathe with me

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bad Puns, Breathplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Erotic Electrostimulation, Glove Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, That Sure is a tag and im v glad lmao guys dont do this, choking but sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15597879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: There’s a reason they’re like this, a reason Ryuji’s panting in hot, short whines as Akira sucks bruises into his neck, a reason he rocks onto the thigh shoved between his legs, and that reason is currently in Akira’s free hand, red blending into red until they’re indistinguishable from each other.He’d never thought he was all that kinky a dude before Akira came into his life. Ryuji’s been wrong about a lot of things, though, and he’s sure this won’t be the last.





	breathe with me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lod/gifts), [Voido](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voido/gifts), [bubblebangbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebangbaby/gifts).



> this is all your faults and i hate you (but i don't i love you) you massive enablers  
> big shoutouts to music and death for beating me with sticks while i finished this

 

There were steps before they got into this position, but Ryuji’ll be damned if he can remember them.

Akira’s mouth is on his own, hot as hellfire and slick as sin, teeth on his ear and his lip and his neck, gloved hands pressing Ryuji into the tiled wall behind him. It’s cold, just as cold as Akira’s mouth is hot, and the two sensations threaten to pull him to taffy between them.

There’s a reason they’re like this, a reason Ryuji’s panting in hot, short whines as Akira sucks bruises into his neck, a reason he rocks onto the thigh shoved between his legs, and that reason is currently in Akira’s free hand, red blending into red until they’re indistinguishable from each other.

He’d never thought he was all that kinky a dude before Akira came into his life. Ryuji’s been wrong about a lot of things, though, and he’s sure this won’t be the last.

The proof of that comes when Akira tugs sharply at his scarf. “On your knees.”

He drops like his bones have turned to liquid, like he’s nothing but Akira’s to command. Which he is, of course; Akira could order him to jump off a bridge in that low, eager voice and he’d do it. Wouldn’t even hold his nose on the way down. His knees hit the ground; Akira looms over him like a shadow with a bone-white grin.

His scarf is still in Akira’s right hand, the knot pressed snug against his adam’s apple. He swallows, feels it press against him, implacable, and a shiver runs down his spine hard enough to shake him.

Akira sinks down too, a more controlled descent that ends with him on Ryuji’s lap, straddling his thighs. He’s so close that Ryuji can feel the phantom heat of his crotch, like if he shifted forward just two inches Akira would be able to rub up against him, they’d both be able to get that delicious, delicious friction. Akira wants it; he shifts back and forth like he’s undecided before shaking his head, a look of regret flashing across his face.

And then his left hand reaches out and trails its fingers up his collarbone slowly, surely, and settles against his neck.

The web between his thumb and forefinger gives him a hint of pressure, just a touch; it sends a frisson of anticipation shuddering through him and it’s all Ryuji can do not to gasp. He makes a mewling sound instead, barely hidden under the sharp, excited panting of his breath. His arms lay slack at his sides, unwilling to touch until Akira says it’s okay. He’s been wanting this for so long— maybe ever since he first saw Joker’s gloves red and slick as blood.

Akira presses in, just a bit, a threat. He still barely has any pressure on his throat, but even just the thought of more has him quivering, has him so hard and eager against the line of his skintight outfit, enough to try and grind raggedly against it in the hopes of even a little friction. It makes Akira  _ tsk _ at him, a disappointed sound. “Stay still.”

He drops the scarf but keeps his hand on Ryuji’s neck; he can barely bring himself to be disappointed about it, because in the next motion he unsheathes his knife.

“Stay  _ very _ still,” he reiterates with a smile like a slash, and twists just enough to get his dagger down between Ryuji’s legs.

The tip of the dagger is sharp enough, and Akira is deft enough, to unpick single stitches from the seam of his crotch. It’s torture; Akira teases them loose one at a time, millimeter by dreadful, aching millimeter, the barest ghost of a touch that he’d have to be an idiot to thrust up into (but wants to anyway??? Brain,  _ no) _

Single stitch by single stitch, all the way up until the blade hits the belts criss-crossed around his hips, and by the time Akira’s done Ryuji’s breath is coming in shallow pants, a whine in every exhale as Akira keeps the back of his head pinned to the cold subway tile wall and reaches in through the hole he’s made to pull Ryuji’s cock out.

Metaverse underwear is a weird and nebulous concept at the best of times. Today there’s nothing there. There wasn’t anything between himself and that razor sharp knifepoint. If Akira had slipped…

His cock throbs in Akira’s palm in counterpoint to the high, sharp noise he makes. He’s already wet enough that it makes a slick noise when Akira closes his hand around the tip and squeezes. “Hands on my wrist,” he says, low and rough and eager, his eyes dark as thunderclouds and twice as threatening. Ryuji finally lifts his hands, puts them both on the wrist of the hand currently holding his neck. “If you let go, so do I.”

“Okay,”  Ryuji whines, “okay, okay, just do it, Akira, please, please,  _ please—” _

“How can I say no when you beg so prettily?” Akira says with a smile.

And his fingers bear down.

Akira eases him into it slowly— five seconds of pressure, lifting up to allow him a few thick, wet gasps of air, then easing back down on him, his gloved fingers trailing up and down Ryuji’s cock just lightly enough to keep him stimulated, not hard enough to let him chase his happy ending. It’s not enough to deprive him of too much air, just enough to get his head spinning.

Then his hand closes around Ryuji’s windpipe, and his other hand closes around Ryuji’s cock, jerking him in long, firm strokes.

He’s okay for five seconds, ten, fifteen, and then the need to breathe digs deep into him with iron claws, but stronger still is the giddiness, the dizziness, the sheer overpowering  _ sensations _ he feels— every nerve tingles, every part of him feels like it’s crackling, and then Akira lets him go to breathe, his hand speeding up, working up over the tip and back down in long, slippery slides.

_ Fuck _ ! Fuck, it feels so good, and Ryuji sobs on his next inhale, his hands digging tighter into Akira’s wrist. There’s lighting starting to dance between his fingers— his self control is fraying, and he tries to rein it back in. “S-sorry—”

“You’re okay,” Akira says, tight and even. Ryuji’s eyes snap up to his face— his cheeks are red beneath his mask, his eyes alight and eager. “Deep breath.”

Ryuji inhales as much as he can before Akira presses down again.

Oh, this is even better— Akira tenderly dividing his attention between the hand on his throat and the hand on his cock, and the latter moves even faster now, with slick, lewd noises echoing out every time Akira’s hand grips him tight. The urge to breathe is a high, thready wail in the back of his mind, overpowered by the way his hips jerk uselessly up, chasing, seeking, he needs, he needs, Akira, please—

He can’t help it. It’s too good.

The lightning sparking on his palms ripples up his arms, crackling snakes of electricity writhing across his skin, pulsating on-off-on-off with the beat of his heart like a strobe light, like the tamed energy from a plasma ball set free to roam. It spreads from his hands up Akira’s arm, wreathing him in the same light that’s surrounding Ryuji. His hair puffs up like a startled dandelion, transforming from ‘artful tousle’ to ‘mad scientist’ in the space of a breath, and the light’s just bright enough to reflect in Akira’s startled eyes.

Then it discharges.

Akira goes stiff as a statue. His head snaps back hard enough his mask flies off his face, clattering to the ground a foot and a half away. His hand locks tight arought Ryuji, tight enough that Ryuji bucks into his fist with a shout, but it’s nothing compared to the noise Akira makes. Half groan, half whine, half growl, all  _ Akira _ , and even if he didn’t still have a hand around his throat it’d be enough to make Ryuji breathless.

And then he looks back down at Ryuji, and there’s nothing but white-hot lust in his eyes.

Ryuji gets a few good breaths in when Akira takes his hand back, almost hyperventilating as his fingertips reposition themselves under the hinges of his jaw. His palm covers the entirety of Ryuji’s throat, and Ryuji only gets a moment more before his fingers dig in again. He’s lightheaded immediately, broken noises spilling out of his mouth as Akira’s hand on his cock turns punishingly fast, driving him up, working him tighter, harder, the lightning crackling between his palms again, Akira, _Akira,_ he can’t stop it he can’t stop it crawling up his arms he can’t, he can’t, please, harder harder _harder_ **_Akira—_**

He pulls Akira’s hand tight to his throat as the lighting surges again, surrounding them both in a yellow haze, and— 

Light behind his eyes—

Bowing back so far his head slams into the tile wall behind him— 

A noise like a lightbulb fuse blowing, magnified by a thousand— 

 

When he comes back to himself he’s shaking, the aftershocks still racing up and down his spine. There’s lazy flickers of lightning still running tendrils up and down his body like he’s one of those weird plasma balls at a museum, flickering in and out of existence at random. They’re still slipping from his hands to Akira’s arm like a lazy caress, and every time Akira breathes in he exhales like he’s been punched— low, wet, wounded noises.

His hands aren’t around Ryuji’s throat anymore. They’re cradling his jaw, stroking along his cheeks, jerking every time a stronger coil of electricity winds onto him. Ryuji tilts his head just enough to press a kiss to the red leather with a sigh of satisfaction.

Then he reaches up with a still-sparking hand and grabs Akira by the nape of the neck.

The effect is immediate. 

He folds like a wet paper bag, his forehead hitting Ryuji’s with a whine. He’s so pretty, with his cheeks painted red and his eyes so wide the grey is almost lost to the black of his pupils. Ryuji wants to kiss him silly, wants to dig his fingers into that dumb leather jacket and cuddle, but…Akira’s making aborted motions, tiny little jerks in fits and starts, the whines in his exhale growing urgent and strained.

He still can’t control the lighting dancing between his fingertips, so he might as well put it to good use.

Akira hisses when Ryuji slides the flat of his palm up the back of his neck up into his hair, grabbing a good handful and yanking his head to the side. It gives him excellent access to put his teeth into the smooth, pale line of his neck, to bite and nip and lave his tongue over the pale column of his throat, and if he concentrates just hard enough, just right— haha,  _ eff yeah. _

The next time he bites down there’s sparks crackling between his teeth, and Akira cries out, a wordless howl, a plea that Ryuji answers when he slides his hand up his (stupid dumb) slacks and cups him through the fabric.

Fuck, he’s worked up. He tries to lean forward, tries to rut against even that soft touch, but Ryuji grabs his hair tighter, forces a bit more juice into the sparks in his fingers, and Akira arches back like a drawn bow, like a guideline tugged taught. It’s probably time he stops teasing, huh? Lucky for the both of them that Akira’s pants are easier to work with than Ryuji’s bodysuit, there’s snaps and everything.

Makes it a lot easier to get a hand inside where he and Akira both want it, to run his fingertips up the slick and silky material of Akira’s metaverse underwear and grip him through it hard enough that he yells, grind his palm up against the tip until Akira pushes back, his own hands fisting hard into Ryuji’s oversized collar. Makes it easy to shove it down, pump him fast and slick and messy, dial up the sparks in his palms until Akira’s shaking, almost seizing, his teeth gritted, his eyes rolling almost all the way back in his head, and if Ryuji hadn’t literally just gotten off with one of the strongest orgasm’s he’s ever had this’d be enough to get him back there  _ immediately.  _

His control isn’t perfect. Ryuji slips up when he tries to dial it up just another notch; his teasing jolt turns into a full-throttle ziodyne, sending sheets of lighting crackling up and down Akira’s body from the back of his head and the hand on his dick.

Instantly Akira screeches, a high-pitched noise that slides into registers that normal voices shouldn’t reach. Ryuji panics, grabbing at his waist, his shoulder, but everywhere he touches the lightning spreads until Akira’s sobbing, until he’s limp and shaking, boneless against Ryuji’s shoulder.

Shit, shit shit  _ shit! _ “Akira,” Ryuji says, panicking, getting his hands under his shoulders and trying to shove him back to see his face, “babe, Akira, are you okay?”

Akira doesn’t answer. Akira doesn’t really do much of anything besides be dead weight under his palms, his breaths coming in and out in fast, shallow, shivery huffs. When Ryuji tips him back just a little further, trying to see his face, trying to pull a response out of him,  _ anything, _ he sees three things.

One: Akira’s entire face is cherry-red.

Two: Akira’s eyes are empty and glazed.

Three: Akira’s entire jacket is spattered with— 

“Holy  _ shit,” _ Ryuji breathes in awe and horror. “ _ Dude. _ What the  _ shit. _ ”

Fuck, there’s some on his  _ chin.  _ Ryuji hastily strips his scarf off and uses it to dab Akira’s skin clean, letting him shiver his way back to full consciousness at his own pace. It takes...a while. Long enough that Ryuji’s ass goes a little numb as he keeps Akira supported, the mess all over Akira’s front preventing him from holding him the way he really wants to.

Finally,  _ finally _ he groans, lifting his head under his own power, his gaze more present but still unfocused. He touches his own cheek like he’s trying to make sure he still lives in his own skin. 

Ryuji rubs his hands across his shoulders and down his back, tenderly businesslike. “Welcome back, man, you had me kinda scared,” he says, his voice rough. “How’re you feelin’? Was that okay?” 

It takes a moment for Akira to engage with the question, still rubbing his fingertips back and forth on his cheekbone. His eyes trail over Ryuji’s face, catching on his own once, twice, three times before the contact holds.

When he smiles, it’s a slow and lazy thing, the grin of a cat basking in the warmest ray of sunshine it can find. “I’m alright. That was an….enlightning experience.” 

Ryuji gapes at him for a long, long moment. “Did— did you just—”

“You could say I’m shocked.” 

_ “Akira! _ ”

“What? It took me a solid minute or two to come up with those! Do you not like them?”

“You mean I’ve been breakin’ my wrists holdin’ you up while you’ve been thinkin’ of— of shitty  _ puns?!” _

“Sounds like you’re pretty shocked, too.”

_ “AKIRA!!!”  _

The sound of Akira’s laughter echoing off the tile walls shouldn’t be as sweet as it is, especially after dumb jokes like those.

**Author's Note:**

> HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhh


End file.
